Throughout my illness, Alex was my biggest cheerleader. Here he toasts to his new nursing role.

| photo by Betsy de Parry

Readers: The events in these installments, the condensed version of my book, occurred in 2002. To catch up from the beginning, these chronicles start here.

To say that Alex and I were exhausted from eight grueling months of riding the roller coaster of cancer would be an understatement. In the previous four weeks, we'd endured more unexpected jolts, more twists and more turns than ever, culminating with Dr. Doom's final blow: just as the one treatment that might save my life was about to enter my body, a nurse had told us that he thought that the cancer had spread to my bones, though he had neither examined me nor tested me for this conclusion. Once again, Dr. Doom had sent Alex and me into emotional freefall.

The day after treatment and his unhappy conclusion, I awoke with the stabbing pain that had led him to draw it but was too emotionally spent even to reach for my safety net: Dr. Kaminski. Alex wanted to call him immediately, but I begged him to give me one day — just one day — to believe I was cancer-free before I faced any subsequent setbacks. And all day, I hoped that the pain would magically disappear. It didn't.

The following day — a Friday, two days after treatment — I reluctantly called and was invited for an immediate visit. By 6 p.m. and several tests later, Dr. Kaminski suspected that a small blood clot was the possible culprit, a far superior explanation than bone cancer. He couldn't be sure without an angiogram, which couldn't be done until Monday unless he admitted me to the hospital. Another stay in Hotel Hell? I don't think so. Ever cautious, I knew that Dr. Kaminski wouldn't let me return home if he believed I was in any danger. To be safe, he prescribed a blood thinner that I was to inject, twice daily, during the weekend.

Alex and I were so relieved. Almost anything was better than bone cancer. But self-injections? No way. I'm much too chicken for that, not to mention the fact that I was hardly masochist enough to add stabbing myself to the stabbing pain in my side. Never mind that the needles were miniscule.

As usual, Alex came to my rescue. Raising his glass and waving the pompoms I'd bestowed on him for being my head cheerleader, he made a toast. "Here's to your new nurse. I'll give you the shots. I just need to psych myself up because I don't want to hurt you."

"Here's your big chance," I teased.

I was sure we'd be found passed out on the floor with a syringe dangling from my leg if we foolishly proceeded, but Alex was intent on accomplishing the mission. Nervous but determined, he practiced injecting an orange while I panicked and paced around the kitchen muttering absurdities.

"OK, Nurse Ratchet, no matter how badly you hurt me, I swear I'll still love you. And don't you want to re-think this? If you don't give me the shots and it is a blood clot, maybe it will hit my heart and we'll both be out of our misery."

"Will you just hush?" he chided. "I'm ready."

Reluctantly, I sat down, swabbed my leg with alcohol and pinched my thigh for him. And then I closed my eyes and waited for unskilled hands to inflict grisly torture. Next thing I knew, Alex was saying, "Open your eyes."

Moaning and groaning, I replied, "I can't until you're done."

"Betsy, just open them." Grimacing, I opened one eye and was surprised to see the empty syringe in front of my face.

"It's over. I'm done," said Alex, grinning from ear to ear. I threw my arms around his neck and we laughed and laughed. Alex was pretty proud of his new skill and I was proud of him. It was one of many skills that cancer had compelled us to learn, but we'd paid an exorbitant emotional price for our education.

Next Tuesday, Dec. 7: On vacation from cancer at last

Betsy de Parry is the author of The Roller Coaster Chronicles and host of a series of webcasts about cancer. Find her on Facebook or Twitter or email her.